Looking down from heaven seems like a terrible burden for one little soul.
When I leave, I won't look back, ever.
I won't leave anything unsaid,
or at least unfelt.
I won't have any reason to look back--
when I leave, I'll be finished.
You don't have to worry about me watching what you're doing
or at least I'll turn away at the things you don't want me to see.
I might not even take any memory of you with me.
But at least I'll take the love with me
because it made me who I am.
In memory...9/11 victims.....
Friday, September 11, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
A Life Measured by Seasons--and Hummingbirds
We woke up early yesterday and took our coffee and paper out onto the deck for another peaceful Sunday morning. The crisp 55 degree weather awakened my senses to an early fall. All still looked like summer, and it still sounded like summer--the birds and crickets chirping, the rustling of creatures, the bloom of herbs and annuals. But the apples in the orchard behind us have become a magical red before I even realized it. Soon groups of deer will stop under the trees, gobbling in the early cold months, then pawing at frozen ground for leftovers closer to the year's end.
The seasons this year have caught me by surprise, and so have the hummingbirds. I missed the brief spring migration--the winter was long, and they migrated north before I could muster the courage put their feeders outside. I would have, though, if I had known their tiny bodies were braving such cold. This year as well, I didn't imagine they were migrating south already, but as we read our paper, we heard the immistakable sound of a prehistoric misquito approaching us. The female hummingbird took a tiny sip of the 3-month old sugar residue, then fled when she noticed us sitting a meter away. That got my ass in gear--yelling "hummingbird!" I dashed into the house to replenish the sugar supply.
It's easy to live a seasonal life here in Wisconsin, where we undeniably have four very distinct seasons. But it wasn't until we moved out of the city that I truly felt the seasons as more than just changes in weather. There's a new, comforting predictability in the apples turning red, in the barn owl's mid-summer hoot, in the creek roaring with spring's melted snow. These are events that cannot be written in advance on one's wall calendar--they just happen with the seasons.
I've come to believe that a life measured in years is too abstract--ironic, since we've numbered our days with set minutes and hours. What can we say of 2008? Of 2009? "It was a good year?" "That was the year we...?" What do those statements mean, after all?
I imagine, too, that having a young child makes one live seasonally all the more. After all, a 1-year old child has no concept of years. A newborn baby is almost unrecognizably a different being at 4, 6, 12 months old. It's stunning to think that the toddling, waving, laughing child was unable to even roll over or sit up earlier that year.
When I measure by seasons, life seems more manageable. The seasons offer their own comforts and promises, and I've come to appreciate them all. Winter is no longer just an undesirable part of the year to "get through." Winter now offers me the quiet of a fresh-snow morning, the spell of blue hours at dusk, time to rest with my family on long dark nights, the joy of making slow food such as chili, spiced cider, winter squash, and that good local favorite--WI beer-cheese soup.
Living seasonally helps me accept the natural ebb and flow of relationships, feelings, and lifestages as well. We need not be constant year-round. There are seasons of the mind, of marriage, of obligation, of thought, of friendship. There are seasons for questioning, for exploration, for accepting. There are seasons of family life--and being a wildly impatient person by nature, this helps me accept situations that are temporary but feel like they are permanent.
Eating seasonally has long been a part of my adult life--probably starting with the time I lived in Nepal, during which I observed an environment where people were much more attuned to the land. In the US, where most everything is now available year-round, there is opportunity every day to feast. Foods and meals that were once had in celebration no longer mark the seasons for many people. While I am grateful that I have year-round access to healthy vegetarian food, we buy from the farmer's markets when we can (I wish we had year-round farmer's markets in WI, but as far as I know, the only such one is in Madison), which covers most of spring well into late fall. I find that eating seasonal foods makes me more grateful for the seasonal cycle, and lends a special quality to the dishes themselves.
Living seasonally leads to a rather interesting phenomenon and that is...year-round gratitude for what God has created--the special gifts and possibilities the divine gives to humankind in all situations.
As it draws to an end, summer 2009 will go down as a "purple flower and bumble bee summer:" a summer of no surgeries or hospitalizations. A summer of long walks. A summer of friends and birthdays. A summer of reprieve.
The seasons this year have caught me by surprise, and so have the hummingbirds. I missed the brief spring migration--the winter was long, and they migrated north before I could muster the courage put their feeders outside. I would have, though, if I had known their tiny bodies were braving such cold. This year as well, I didn't imagine they were migrating south already, but as we read our paper, we heard the immistakable sound of a prehistoric misquito approaching us. The female hummingbird took a tiny sip of the 3-month old sugar residue, then fled when she noticed us sitting a meter away. That got my ass in gear--yelling "hummingbird!" I dashed into the house to replenish the sugar supply.
It's easy to live a seasonal life here in Wisconsin, where we undeniably have four very distinct seasons. But it wasn't until we moved out of the city that I truly felt the seasons as more than just changes in weather. There's a new, comforting predictability in the apples turning red, in the barn owl's mid-summer hoot, in the creek roaring with spring's melted snow. These are events that cannot be written in advance on one's wall calendar--they just happen with the seasons.
I've come to believe that a life measured in years is too abstract--ironic, since we've numbered our days with set minutes and hours. What can we say of 2008? Of 2009? "It was a good year?" "That was the year we...?" What do those statements mean, after all?
I imagine, too, that having a young child makes one live seasonally all the more. After all, a 1-year old child has no concept of years. A newborn baby is almost unrecognizably a different being at 4, 6, 12 months old. It's stunning to think that the toddling, waving, laughing child was unable to even roll over or sit up earlier that year.
When I measure by seasons, life seems more manageable. The seasons offer their own comforts and promises, and I've come to appreciate them all. Winter is no longer just an undesirable part of the year to "get through." Winter now offers me the quiet of a fresh-snow morning, the spell of blue hours at dusk, time to rest with my family on long dark nights, the joy of making slow food such as chili, spiced cider, winter squash, and that good local favorite--WI beer-cheese soup.
Living seasonally helps me accept the natural ebb and flow of relationships, feelings, and lifestages as well. We need not be constant year-round. There are seasons of the mind, of marriage, of obligation, of thought, of friendship. There are seasons for questioning, for exploration, for accepting. There are seasons of family life--and being a wildly impatient person by nature, this helps me accept situations that are temporary but feel like they are permanent.
Eating seasonally has long been a part of my adult life--probably starting with the time I lived in Nepal, during which I observed an environment where people were much more attuned to the land. In the US, where most everything is now available year-round, there is opportunity every day to feast. Foods and meals that were once had in celebration no longer mark the seasons for many people. While I am grateful that I have year-round access to healthy vegetarian food, we buy from the farmer's markets when we can (I wish we had year-round farmer's markets in WI, but as far as I know, the only such one is in Madison), which covers most of spring well into late fall. I find that eating seasonal foods makes me more grateful for the seasonal cycle, and lends a special quality to the dishes themselves.
Living seasonally leads to a rather interesting phenomenon and that is...year-round gratitude for what God has created--the special gifts and possibilities the divine gives to humankind in all situations.
As it draws to an end, summer 2009 will go down as a "purple flower and bumble bee summer:" a summer of no surgeries or hospitalizations. A summer of long walks. A summer of friends and birthdays. A summer of reprieve.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Slavery Happened Here
For me, as a northerner, slavery seems distant to me. Of course, I know it happened not that long ago and I know it was horrific and that we see the modern evidence and effects of it, but it hits me in the same manner the Holocaust does: that it happened in another place and time. In fact, the Holocaust may seem even a bit more real to me, having had some in my family who actually survived the camps.
As a northerner, other things seem more real to me: inequality certainly is real to me. Segregation is very real to me. The fact that things weren't ever great for black folk in the north either is real to me. But the actual bondage? That doesn't seem as real. It didn't happen on the land I consider to be my home. My family never owned any slaves--almost all of them came to the US around the turn of the 20th century or after WWII, and the few that came earlier settled in the north woods of rural WI.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not an idiot. I know how every single white person in the US has received an unfair benefit or advantage due to slavery, even to this day. It's the slavery itself that seems so abstract in my mind--that while I know it happened, the tie that binds me to it seems indirect and indistinct.
I'm in KY this week and I've been down south several times before, including to the Civil Rights Museum in Birmingham and the civil rights marty's memorial and the capital building in Montgomery (which features a prominent portrait of old Governor Wallace). But these sites, too, reminded me more of social inequality than actual slavery (the two, of course, being irrevocably historically connected--but a connection going further back both chronologically and mentally than Jim Crow).
But yesterday on a hike at Mammoth Cave, of all places (not even deep South), the park ranger started talking about the history of slavery on the site--that slaves originally mined the saltpeter from the cave, built the tourist hotels, cooked the food, gave the early cave tours--all for free.
"Who were these slaves? Were these local people who had owned rights to the cave who'd brought them here?" I asked. Yes, the ranger explained to me. Local people who were living on the land discovered the profit to be had from the cave, and exploited it--both the natural resources and the human labor. There is a cemetary along the trail where some of the slaves are buried--most in unmarked graves but for one, who was given a headstone some years after his death by a European.
The unmarked graves astounded me. Why were they unmarked? The ranger said researchers have tried to find out who they were, but they have been unable to. And my first thought was, "well, then they obviously didn't try hard enough." But, of course, these researchers were professionals--is it possibly that these graves represented people whose names have actually been obliterated from human knowledge? What about their families? How is it possible that there isn't someone, somewhere, who has knowledge of who they were? Who might have records, even a diary? It is almost too hard for me to comprehend that no one in this world knows who they were.
It seems like the final injustice to a person's life and memory--an unmarked grave, and obviously it was intentional. A final degradation.
The ranger was white, and to hear her talking about it--I don't know, it just hit me. That on this very land--not just "here" in the US,--people were enslaved. That people were bought, sold, owned, inherited. That a few families reaped immense profit and luxury on the backs of the free labor of many--and I was actually standing on one of the very sites where it occurred, looking at the graves of the very people who acted out this chapter of history. And for those few moments, it felt more real than it ever has.
As a northerner, other things seem more real to me: inequality certainly is real to me. Segregation is very real to me. The fact that things weren't ever great for black folk in the north either is real to me. But the actual bondage? That doesn't seem as real. It didn't happen on the land I consider to be my home. My family never owned any slaves--almost all of them came to the US around the turn of the 20th century or after WWII, and the few that came earlier settled in the north woods of rural WI.
Don't get me wrong--I'm not an idiot. I know how every single white person in the US has received an unfair benefit or advantage due to slavery, even to this day. It's the slavery itself that seems so abstract in my mind--that while I know it happened, the tie that binds me to it seems indirect and indistinct.
I'm in KY this week and I've been down south several times before, including to the Civil Rights Museum in Birmingham and the civil rights marty's memorial and the capital building in Montgomery (which features a prominent portrait of old Governor Wallace). But these sites, too, reminded me more of social inequality than actual slavery (the two, of course, being irrevocably historically connected--but a connection going further back both chronologically and mentally than Jim Crow).
But yesterday on a hike at Mammoth Cave, of all places (not even deep South), the park ranger started talking about the history of slavery on the site--that slaves originally mined the saltpeter from the cave, built the tourist hotels, cooked the food, gave the early cave tours--all for free.
"Who were these slaves? Were these local people who had owned rights to the cave who'd brought them here?" I asked. Yes, the ranger explained to me. Local people who were living on the land discovered the profit to be had from the cave, and exploited it--both the natural resources and the human labor. There is a cemetary along the trail where some of the slaves are buried--most in unmarked graves but for one, who was given a headstone some years after his death by a European.
The unmarked graves astounded me. Why were they unmarked? The ranger said researchers have tried to find out who they were, but they have been unable to. And my first thought was, "well, then they obviously didn't try hard enough." But, of course, these researchers were professionals--is it possibly that these graves represented people whose names have actually been obliterated from human knowledge? What about their families? How is it possible that there isn't someone, somewhere, who has knowledge of who they were? Who might have records, even a diary? It is almost too hard for me to comprehend that no one in this world knows who they were.
It seems like the final injustice to a person's life and memory--an unmarked grave, and obviously it was intentional. A final degradation.
The ranger was white, and to hear her talking about it--I don't know, it just hit me. That on this very land--not just "here" in the US,--people were enslaved. That people were bought, sold, owned, inherited. That a few families reaped immense profit and luxury on the backs of the free labor of many--and I was actually standing on one of the very sites where it occurred, looking at the graves of the very people who acted out this chapter of history. And for those few moments, it felt more real than it ever has.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Feminism and Consumerism: Conjoined Twins?
Feminism is a complicated issue for me, and while I consider myself one on a fundamental level (ie, I believe that women and men are equally human and, as such, both deserving of their equal individual, political, and legal rights), I haven't always approved of what many in our culture consider to be feminism in practice.
Recently, however, I read The Way We Never Were: American Families and Nostalgia Trap by Stephanie Coontz, which finally clarified something for me. Namely, that it is once again consumerism that I disapprove of--and that consumerism has infected our idea of feminism to the point that it makes it hard for people (women? Can men be feminists too? I think they can--how many would admit to being such is another question) like me to identify with the current conceptualization of "feminism."
I should back up here and state that I do not believe feminism to be a set of actions to check off on some magic to-do list: going out and getting a degree does not make you a feminist. Not even becoming the first female president of the United States makes you a feminist. Feminism is also a lifestyle and a set of core values. Feminism should be ethical. To put it plainly, feminism is NOT just advancing yourself as a woman. It is not just pursuing your own personal ambitions. I believe this would be a male-centric value (please don't mistake me here--I'm not saying men are in any way bad or evil--I am classifying greater culture behaviors based on a male-centered culture--not on any individual male. I love men--heck, I'm married to one and have given birth to one! I have a great relationship with my dad and several of my good friends are males. I do not dislike men). If one is truly to call herself a feminist--that is, one who believes in the social, political, educational advancement of women--one helps to advance other women, and girls, and even boys and men--why? Because feminism revolves around equality and being fair.
I should also back up even further and say that I do not believe feminism revolves around imitating male behaviors and traits, ie, a reduction of womanhood to the practice of monkeying men. I suppose this would get me into some trouble with would-be critics (were anyone actually reading my little blog) because it could be interpreted as separate-but-equal ideology--and we all know to what extent that was a sham when it came to racial equality in the U.S. A closer analysis, however, would reveal that equality does not necessarily equal sameness. Just as we have diversity between people in the US when it comes to ethnicity, religion, and culture, we can have diversity when it comes to sexuality yet still have equality.
But the above two sticking points for me stem from the mixing of consumerist and feminist precepts--ie, that women should be as free as men to consume to their hearts' desires--not just in the domestic realm. That women should be equally free to pursue wealth and ideals of individuality--also a pillar of a consumer culture. Coontz brings up the point that ever-increasing fragmentation and hyper-individualism is the logical conclusion of consumerism. We see this in the fact that children are becoming "target audiences" at younger and younger ages--being told that they can best create their images through purchases. The idea that women "should" pursue a career and work right through child rearing is often pressed upon them not in order to make them into fulfilled, well-balanced individuals, but to make them into targets for products, images, and lifestyles--not just as individuals, but as moms as well, in order to give their children the "best" objects and amenities on the market.
This ideology strikes me amoral on several levels, not least of which is the fact, as Coontz points out, that working conditions, schedules, and locations are not female- or family-friendly. It's the "do it all" syndrome I addressed (on a societal level) a few posts back. Women are expected to be men in the workplace and this is actually the opposite of equality--it puts women at a disadvantage and on an unlevel playing field. But women, told that they can indeed be equal to men if they just work harder, sleep less, and be smarter, feel pressure to be "just as good if not better." All this--often, not always--to serve the almight bottom line, the household dollar, in a never-ending pursuit of "the next-best thing" and "keeping up with the Jonses."
Furthering the immoral cycle in my mind is the question, "what about the other best things?" You know, the ones like having a parent available to be there and raise you--one who's not stressed out and always rushing. A parent who helps you achieve your dreams and meet your needs, not the other way around. A parent who takes you to story time and the park during the day. A parent who listens, not hyper-schedules you to keep you busy. What about those other best things, like food that doesn't come out of a box, or being at home when you want to be, instead of shuttled off to a group situation all day? I'm not saying it's necessarily wrong to be a dual-earning couple, but what I am saying is that there's something to be said for the things money can't buy. Seriously, would my kid rather have a trip to Disney World, or would he rather have me or my husband fully engaged with him every day? Would he rather have a TV in his room to be sat in front of while I microwave dinner, or would he rather help me make dinner? Would he rather be taught discipline and values from institutions or from his parents? Would he rather be allowed to explore his individuality within the pace of everyday family life, or within the bounds of structured "creative" activities?
I believe consumerist societies, cultures, pursuits, and values ultimately lead nowhere, and are self-destructive. I guess I can feel more comfortable thinking of myself as a feminist now that I have more understanding of where "the movement" dead-ended. For awhile I was wondering, "how can I call myself a feminist if I'm a full-time mom?" But it wasn't feminism that I rejected when I opted to stay home with my son. It was consumerism. I refused to march off to something I didn't believe in under the guise of a corrupted, politically correct -ism. But that's just me. Do I think all dual-income couples with kids are pursuing a materialistic lifestyle? No--my point is that our culture has become locked into a cycle of individual pursuits and purchases, which Coontz shows is not necessarily conduicive to family or community life--or even marriage. I have a post-graduate career (or lack of one!) that I can put on hold, so I am lucky to be able to stay at home with my son for now. I can't possibly say all women should stay home from work when they have children--it's not practical or ethical , let alone feminist. But dads can opt to be full-time parents too...true feminism would approve.
Recently, however, I read The Way We Never Were: American Families and Nostalgia Trap by Stephanie Coontz, which finally clarified something for me. Namely, that it is once again consumerism that I disapprove of--and that consumerism has infected our idea of feminism to the point that it makes it hard for people (women? Can men be feminists too? I think they can--how many would admit to being such is another question) like me to identify with the current conceptualization of "feminism."
I should back up here and state that I do not believe feminism to be a set of actions to check off on some magic to-do list: going out and getting a degree does not make you a feminist. Not even becoming the first female president of the United States makes you a feminist. Feminism is also a lifestyle and a set of core values. Feminism should be ethical. To put it plainly, feminism is NOT just advancing yourself as a woman. It is not just pursuing your own personal ambitions. I believe this would be a male-centric value (please don't mistake me here--I'm not saying men are in any way bad or evil--I am classifying greater culture behaviors based on a male-centered culture--not on any individual male. I love men--heck, I'm married to one and have given birth to one! I have a great relationship with my dad and several of my good friends are males. I do not dislike men). If one is truly to call herself a feminist--that is, one who believes in the social, political, educational advancement of women--one helps to advance other women, and girls, and even boys and men--why? Because feminism revolves around equality and being fair.
I should also back up even further and say that I do not believe feminism revolves around imitating male behaviors and traits, ie, a reduction of womanhood to the practice of monkeying men. I suppose this would get me into some trouble with would-be critics (were anyone actually reading my little blog) because it could be interpreted as separate-but-equal ideology--and we all know to what extent that was a sham when it came to racial equality in the U.S. A closer analysis, however, would reveal that equality does not necessarily equal sameness. Just as we have diversity between people in the US when it comes to ethnicity, religion, and culture, we can have diversity when it comes to sexuality yet still have equality.
But the above two sticking points for me stem from the mixing of consumerist and feminist precepts--ie, that women should be as free as men to consume to their hearts' desires--not just in the domestic realm. That women should be equally free to pursue wealth and ideals of individuality--also a pillar of a consumer culture. Coontz brings up the point that ever-increasing fragmentation and hyper-individualism is the logical conclusion of consumerism. We see this in the fact that children are becoming "target audiences" at younger and younger ages--being told that they can best create their images through purchases. The idea that women "should" pursue a career and work right through child rearing is often pressed upon them not in order to make them into fulfilled, well-balanced individuals, but to make them into targets for products, images, and lifestyles--not just as individuals, but as moms as well, in order to give their children the "best" objects and amenities on the market.
This ideology strikes me amoral on several levels, not least of which is the fact, as Coontz points out, that working conditions, schedules, and locations are not female- or family-friendly. It's the "do it all" syndrome I addressed (on a societal level) a few posts back. Women are expected to be men in the workplace and this is actually the opposite of equality--it puts women at a disadvantage and on an unlevel playing field. But women, told that they can indeed be equal to men if they just work harder, sleep less, and be smarter, feel pressure to be "just as good if not better." All this--often, not always--to serve the almight bottom line, the household dollar, in a never-ending pursuit of "the next-best thing" and "keeping up with the Jonses."
Furthering the immoral cycle in my mind is the question, "what about the other best things?" You know, the ones like having a parent available to be there and raise you--one who's not stressed out and always rushing. A parent who helps you achieve your dreams and meet your needs, not the other way around. A parent who takes you to story time and the park during the day. A parent who listens, not hyper-schedules you to keep you busy. What about those other best things, like food that doesn't come out of a box, or being at home when you want to be, instead of shuttled off to a group situation all day? I'm not saying it's necessarily wrong to be a dual-earning couple, but what I am saying is that there's something to be said for the things money can't buy. Seriously, would my kid rather have a trip to Disney World, or would he rather have me or my husband fully engaged with him every day? Would he rather have a TV in his room to be sat in front of while I microwave dinner, or would he rather help me make dinner? Would he rather be taught discipline and values from institutions or from his parents? Would he rather be allowed to explore his individuality within the pace of everyday family life, or within the bounds of structured "creative" activities?
I believe consumerist societies, cultures, pursuits, and values ultimately lead nowhere, and are self-destructive. I guess I can feel more comfortable thinking of myself as a feminist now that I have more understanding of where "the movement" dead-ended. For awhile I was wondering, "how can I call myself a feminist if I'm a full-time mom?" But it wasn't feminism that I rejected when I opted to stay home with my son. It was consumerism. I refused to march off to something I didn't believe in under the guise of a corrupted, politically correct -ism. But that's just me. Do I think all dual-income couples with kids are pursuing a materialistic lifestyle? No--my point is that our culture has become locked into a cycle of individual pursuits and purchases, which Coontz shows is not necessarily conduicive to family or community life--or even marriage. I have a post-graduate career (or lack of one!) that I can put on hold, so I am lucky to be able to stay at home with my son for now. I can't possibly say all women should stay home from work when they have children--it's not practical or ethical , let alone feminist. But dads can opt to be full-time parents too...true feminism would approve.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Pen Envy: A Good Man--I Mean Pen--Is Hard To Find
So, I have this little obsession with the Perfect Pen. I select my pens with discernment, and they become my friends as they accompany me through jotted ideas, impromptu lists, and attentive note-taking...and as friends, I am always sorry to see them go.
The problem is, when you're married, your spouse may be the type of person who buys cheap bulk packs of Bic ballpoints and then proceeds to "subconsciously" make off with your own beloved (read: nicer) pen.
I know I'm not the only one with this obsession. In the Mongolian steppe, good pens were hard to find. Most of us in language class had our prized pen from America, the single one we'd stuffed in our carry-on in order to write postcards from Seoul en route. Little did we know that these pens would become closely-guarded treasure.
One day in Bayangol, I found a Perfect Pen on the classroom floor before class. Unable to believe my luck, I took notes with it that day--until lunch, that is, when I heard one of my classmates yell, "Is that my pen?!?!?!!!" "Well, I suppose it is! I found it on the floor earlier." "GIVE. ME. BACK. MY. PEN. That's MY pen. That's my FAVORITE pen."
Apparently, however, things have changed since I last checked the pen aisle. Itching for a trusty, inky sidekick, I ventured unsuspecting into an anonymous big box store today: Day 1 of my quest. I was immediately plunged into a sea of frantic back-to-school shoppers ripping apart the supplies as their lives depended on finding the Perfect Pen.
And so they do. Or, some version thereof, such as the Perfect Popluarity Notebook or Mrs Ironshank's Perfect Scientific Calculator.
The problem was, despite submerging myself into sneezing 9-year olds and hassled parents, my Perfect Pen was nowhere in sight. !!!!!!!!!!!???????????
FIRST OF ALL. There will be no retractables in my life. Retractable is just a nice way to say "piece of crap with a spring that'll rust and a pen that'll invariably leak through the ever-open top or push out and write nonsense all over the inside of your purse." The crisp satisfaction I get from uncapping, and the finality and accomplishment of snapping the cap back on...yes, caps are more sophisticated.
SECONDLY. The rubber grip MUST be ribbed or studded (dirty, I know!) NOT SMOOTH!!!! When it's smooth, it rolls up the...shaft...and what good is that?!
THIRD. The ink must be blue, but the perfect shade of blue. Not too dark. Not too pale.
FOURTH. The point must not be too fine. I'm trying to make a statement here. 0.7 mm is a good size.
FIFTH. Gel ink is ok, but it has to have a roll/ball point. There HAS TO BE a BALL.
SIXTH. The shaft must not be too wide, nor too narrow.
SEVENTH. Long-lasting is a must.
Is that so hard to stock?!!!!!! My quest continues.
The problem is, when you're married, your spouse may be the type of person who buys cheap bulk packs of Bic ballpoints and then proceeds to "subconsciously" make off with your own beloved (read: nicer) pen.
I know I'm not the only one with this obsession. In the Mongolian steppe, good pens were hard to find. Most of us in language class had our prized pen from America, the single one we'd stuffed in our carry-on in order to write postcards from Seoul en route. Little did we know that these pens would become closely-guarded treasure.
One day in Bayangol, I found a Perfect Pen on the classroom floor before class. Unable to believe my luck, I took notes with it that day--until lunch, that is, when I heard one of my classmates yell, "Is that my pen?!?!?!!!" "Well, I suppose it is! I found it on the floor earlier." "GIVE. ME. BACK. MY. PEN. That's MY pen. That's my FAVORITE pen."
Apparently, however, things have changed since I last checked the pen aisle. Itching for a trusty, inky sidekick, I ventured unsuspecting into an anonymous big box store today: Day 1 of my quest. I was immediately plunged into a sea of frantic back-to-school shoppers ripping apart the supplies as their lives depended on finding the Perfect Pen.
And so they do. Or, some version thereof, such as the Perfect Popluarity Notebook or Mrs Ironshank's Perfect Scientific Calculator.
The problem was, despite submerging myself into sneezing 9-year olds and hassled parents, my Perfect Pen was nowhere in sight. !!!!!!!!!!!???????????
FIRST OF ALL. There will be no retractables in my life. Retractable is just a nice way to say "piece of crap with a spring that'll rust and a pen that'll invariably leak through the ever-open top or push out and write nonsense all over the inside of your purse." The crisp satisfaction I get from uncapping, and the finality and accomplishment of snapping the cap back on...yes, caps are more sophisticated.
SECONDLY. The rubber grip MUST be ribbed or studded (dirty, I know!) NOT SMOOTH!!!! When it's smooth, it rolls up the...shaft...and what good is that?!
THIRD. The ink must be blue, but the perfect shade of blue. Not too dark. Not too pale.
FOURTH. The point must not be too fine. I'm trying to make a statement here. 0.7 mm is a good size.
FIFTH. Gel ink is ok, but it has to have a roll/ball point. There HAS TO BE a BALL.
SIXTH. The shaft must not be too wide, nor too narrow.
SEVENTH. Long-lasting is a must.
Is that so hard to stock?!!!!!! My quest continues.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Out of the Frying Pan
Driving out east is a rather different beast than driving west, north, or south. First of all, driving east from Milwaukee means inadvertently going through versus around Chicago—a decided congestion disadvantage. Then, one must factor in about $30 extra each way in interstate tolls. Finally, there is a dearth of sites, road stops, tourist traps, and restaurants along the Midwest-east coast route.
Compared to the quiet cool forests and lakes of the north, the landscape changes and tacky roadside trappings of the west, and cultural changes of the south, heading east is thus far not entirely exciting or refreshing.
WI is a lovely state, but to drive to any other notable place from it, one must go through the most boring states—IL, IA, MN, IN, OH—that are only marginally more captivating than the excruciating plains states such as KS, NE, OK, eastern SD, southern MT, etc. Coming to think of it, though, the states I have actually enjoyed driving through are few—KY, TN, ND, western SD, NM, MI, WI. Bearable: AL, FL, CA, MS, MO, WY, CO, UT, NV.
Wishing to avoid hearing yet another Michael Jackson radio eulogy is enabling us to memorize the entire 2-CD Indigo Girls album, Poseidon and the Bitter Bug. Likewise, avoidance strategies against instant and gas station coffee are addicting us to those cute little dark horse cans of Starbucks Double Shots.
Maybe PA will hold more promise, though eastern OH is getting hilly.
Compared to the quiet cool forests and lakes of the north, the landscape changes and tacky roadside trappings of the west, and cultural changes of the south, heading east is thus far not entirely exciting or refreshing.
WI is a lovely state, but to drive to any other notable place from it, one must go through the most boring states—IL, IA, MN, IN, OH—that are only marginally more captivating than the excruciating plains states such as KS, NE, OK, eastern SD, southern MT, etc. Coming to think of it, though, the states I have actually enjoyed driving through are few—KY, TN, ND, western SD, NM, MI, WI. Bearable: AL, FL, CA, MS, MO, WY, CO, UT, NV.
Wishing to avoid hearing yet another Michael Jackson radio eulogy is enabling us to memorize the entire 2-CD Indigo Girls album, Poseidon and the Bitter Bug. Likewise, avoidance strategies against instant and gas station coffee are addicting us to those cute little dark horse cans of Starbucks Double Shots.
Maybe PA will hold more promise, though eastern OH is getting hilly.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
And the Sins of the Fathers...
The intangible inheritance parents pass on to their children is the earliest impression of God’s character. Unfair as it may be, as big of a responsibility it is, children learn about God from the way their parents treat them—it’s no coincidence that we often perceive God as a father or mother figure. In the early years, parents are their children’s creators, providers, nurturers, caretakers, and teachers. Parents can give or take away. Their word is (usually) law and their pronouncements are judgments and decrees. Parents can be unfair and mysterious to a child, with ways that are unknown (“because I said so, and I am [God]. Who are you to question?”).
As a young child, your parent pretty much IS God—your primary example of love and relationship. The loving aspects of parenthood are a tiny slice of God’s perfect parenthood. The selfish, fallen aspects are the mark of our human, earthly status.
It took me a very long time to realize how my upbringing was reflected in my relationship with God. Having very critical, unpredictable parents made me perceive a God that was judgmental and unpredictably loving. A God who thought I wasn’t good enough—a capricious and whimsical God. This image of God was dysfunctional, and for years caused me to doubt and distrust God’s nature.
If we take a good look at how we view God, we often find that the picture was influenced by some of our earliest childhood experiences. Maybe for some of us, it felt like God was never around or emotionally unavailable. Maybe we couldn’t live up to his larger-than-life personality or expectations; maybe we never felt good enough. Maybe God was cold and distant, uncaring or selfish—maybe a user…maybe unreliable, egotistical, arrogant, hypocritical.
Only after I became a parent myself did I realize how God might really see me and How He might really Be. First of all, my son is not “perfect,” just as we are not perfect in the eyes of God. He was born with a single ventricle heart. But this does not mean I love my son any less. Indeed, children with special needs are called “special” for a reason. I won’t go so far as to say that “heart parents” love their children more than “normal parents” (after all, I wouldn’t know for sure)—but almost. I’ll stop just short of saying that. My son was born with a defect, as we are all born with the defect of original sin. I think God wants to see us succeed in our spiritual journeys all the more because of our human disadvantage.
Secondly, the life our son is living is not the life we had planned for him, much like God’s original plan for humankind is not what we are all living now. Our original plan for our son was an idyllic babyhood filled with swim classes at the YMCA, baby yoga, and travel—not open-heart surgeries, long hospital stays, and countless medical procedures. Am I disappointed in the situation? Yes. Am I disappointed in my son? No. My son's life is filled with a lot more pain and suffering than I would have ever wanted. Now I understand some of the pain God must feel at our human suffering.
Parents see their children as their most perfect creations. Parents take pride in their scrawny, puny newborns and in their eyes, these newborns are the cutest to ever grace the universe. As our children grow older, we set rules for them that they don’t always understand. Sometimes we become frustrated, angry, or hurt when they are ungrateful or when they disobey us. But we always forgive them when they truly repent, no matter how grave the offense.
So where does this “punish the children for the sins of their fathers” idea come from? Deuteronomy 5:9-10: “I do not leave unpunished the sins of those who hate me, but I punish the children for the sins of their parents to the third and fourth generations. But I lavish my love on those who love me and obey my commands, even for a thousand generations.” I’m not a reverend, but my layperson interpretation of these 2 verses is that love is the greater force here—a force that sets us free from the examples of previous generations.
Maybe what God meant was not that He would exact punishment for its own sake on a sinner’s children, but that repeating the mistakes of one’s parents is punishment enough, and is the intangible inheritance of a human primary example. It is a warning to parents that history repeats itself, and can put subsequent generations at considerable disadvantage. Indeed, to overcome the sins of one’s father or mother, it takes conscious realization, supplication, and a little divine intervention. One of my good friends mentioned years ago that only God could break the patterns families can fall into and pass down through generations, and that we need to consciously ask God to shatter the chains that tie us to our forefathers. It can be something as serious as alcoholism, abuse, depression, and abandonment to more oblique family attributes like disapproval, pride, or sanctimoniousness. Take a good look at what you’ve inherited from your family—then ask God to set you free.
As a young child, your parent pretty much IS God—your primary example of love and relationship. The loving aspects of parenthood are a tiny slice of God’s perfect parenthood. The selfish, fallen aspects are the mark of our human, earthly status.
It took me a very long time to realize how my upbringing was reflected in my relationship with God. Having very critical, unpredictable parents made me perceive a God that was judgmental and unpredictably loving. A God who thought I wasn’t good enough—a capricious and whimsical God. This image of God was dysfunctional, and for years caused me to doubt and distrust God’s nature.
If we take a good look at how we view God, we often find that the picture was influenced by some of our earliest childhood experiences. Maybe for some of us, it felt like God was never around or emotionally unavailable. Maybe we couldn’t live up to his larger-than-life personality or expectations; maybe we never felt good enough. Maybe God was cold and distant, uncaring or selfish—maybe a user…maybe unreliable, egotistical, arrogant, hypocritical.
Only after I became a parent myself did I realize how God might really see me and How He might really Be. First of all, my son is not “perfect,” just as we are not perfect in the eyes of God. He was born with a single ventricle heart. But this does not mean I love my son any less. Indeed, children with special needs are called “special” for a reason. I won’t go so far as to say that “heart parents” love their children more than “normal parents” (after all, I wouldn’t know for sure)—but almost. I’ll stop just short of saying that. My son was born with a defect, as we are all born with the defect of original sin. I think God wants to see us succeed in our spiritual journeys all the more because of our human disadvantage.
Secondly, the life our son is living is not the life we had planned for him, much like God’s original plan for humankind is not what we are all living now. Our original plan for our son was an idyllic babyhood filled with swim classes at the YMCA, baby yoga, and travel—not open-heart surgeries, long hospital stays, and countless medical procedures. Am I disappointed in the situation? Yes. Am I disappointed in my son? No. My son's life is filled with a lot more pain and suffering than I would have ever wanted. Now I understand some of the pain God must feel at our human suffering.
Parents see their children as their most perfect creations. Parents take pride in their scrawny, puny newborns and in their eyes, these newborns are the cutest to ever grace the universe. As our children grow older, we set rules for them that they don’t always understand. Sometimes we become frustrated, angry, or hurt when they are ungrateful or when they disobey us. But we always forgive them when they truly repent, no matter how grave the offense.
So where does this “punish the children for the sins of their fathers” idea come from? Deuteronomy 5:9-10: “I do not leave unpunished the sins of those who hate me, but I punish the children for the sins of their parents to the third and fourth generations. But I lavish my love on those who love me and obey my commands, even for a thousand generations.” I’m not a reverend, but my layperson interpretation of these 2 verses is that love is the greater force here—a force that sets us free from the examples of previous generations.
Maybe what God meant was not that He would exact punishment for its own sake on a sinner’s children, but that repeating the mistakes of one’s parents is punishment enough, and is the intangible inheritance of a human primary example. It is a warning to parents that history repeats itself, and can put subsequent generations at considerable disadvantage. Indeed, to overcome the sins of one’s father or mother, it takes conscious realization, supplication, and a little divine intervention. One of my good friends mentioned years ago that only God could break the patterns families can fall into and pass down through generations, and that we need to consciously ask God to shatter the chains that tie us to our forefathers. It can be something as serious as alcoholism, abuse, depression, and abandonment to more oblique family attributes like disapproval, pride, or sanctimoniousness. Take a good look at what you’ve inherited from your family—then ask God to set you free.
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